Eyes on Fire (Your Spine is Ablaze)
by HardfacedQueenofMisadventure
Summary: Takes place a while after the events of The Dark World. Jane is free of the dangerous clutches of the Aether, but the damage is already done. (Rated T for depictions of illness, I guess. Title taken from the Blue Foundation song "Eyes on Fire".) (Final chapter now up... at last.)
1. Chapter 1

_Blackness, deep like the inside of a cave but restless, somehow, not still, swirling around her like a hurricane, or is she the one spinning?_

" _Jane?"_

 _She cannot see, cannot hear, cannot cry out for help. Her body surges, and even in the encapsulating darkness it feels blinding, her mind supplying her with images of dark-red light even though she can see nothing._

" _Jane? Wake up."_

 _It feels – it feels almost lustful, the sheer energy coursing through her, crackling sharply beneath her fragile skin and wrapping burning tendrils around her heart and mind. It whispers in her ear of untapped potential, of a strength like no other that could be unleashed at any moment, if she would only_ let it happen.

" _Jane, this is starting to freak me out. Wake up!"_

 _But it is dangerous, she knows this. She is not meant to have it, and yet it is within her, as much a part of her as her own soul. Stronger than she could ever be alone. Wielding this she feels… like a goddess. Some omnipotent being that could breathe a universe into existence as easily as she could erase one._

" _Jane…!"_

 _Something begins to slip into the edges of her vision. Light, true light, not the dim, bloody glimmerglow that's blinding her. She cowers from it, fearing what will come with it. No, no, leave me here, let me stay, please –_

 _Someone is shaking her by the shoulder, someone with small, cold hands that cling tightly, fearfully –_

Jane Foster opens her eyes, and immediately regrets it. The light is blinding, burning, but there's someone next to her, stopping her from turning away.

"Jane, thank God. No, no, don't shut your eyes again!" A face swims into view above her, like a mirage. A mirage with glasses, and long brown hair that tickles her face.

"D'rcy?" She blinks hard, trying hard to focus, but after each consecutive blink, her eyes become less and less willing to open up again. The bloody, red-black light is still there, shimmering faintly if she looks hard enough for it.

Darcy slaps her face. Not hard, but it's enough to startle her into some form of wakefulness. She pushes her friend away and struggles to sit up. Big mistake. The room spins around her and a rough, dull ache sweeps through her whole body. She groans, and buries her face in her hands. Her skin is hot, even to her own touch. She swears under her breath, and feels Darcy's hand come to rest against her bare shoulder.

"You okay?" It's not a question she feels like answering, given that this is the furthest she has been from _okay_ in her life, but she nods anyway, hating the lie but still not wanting to entertain the possibility that there could be something wrong. Even though this has been going on for too long now to be anything but a problem.

There's a glass of water in her hands, and it takes her far too long to figure out how it could have gotten there. Drinking feels like swallowing ice, and it makes her shiver without doing anything to quench the fire within her.

"You were asleep for ages this time. _Eighteen hours."_ Jane nearly chokes. "This is the first time either of us have been able to wake you up. I would've thought you were in a coma or something, if not for the snoring and all." She's teasing now, trying to make light of the situation, but Jane silences her with a wave of the hand, too busy trying to process what she's heard to even take notice of the jibe.

"Eighteen hours?" she repeats, her voice scratchy and hollow even after the water. Darcy nods, her quizzical expression suddenly turning grave. "Then it's…" There's a wave of sudden vertigo, strong enough to cut her off. "…Then it's getting worse."

At first, it had been nothing of note. She'd felt worn to the bone at the end of their last escapade, but as far as she was concerned, that was normal and to be expected after hopping between three different Realms and saving the Universe. The fatigue she felt in the days following it was chalked up to the same thing, a theory supported by the fact that it went away.

Until it came back with a vengeance. She found herself retiring to bed earlier and earlier each night, and subsequently waking up later and later, heedless of the many alarms she set on her phone in an attempt to combat the issue. More often than not she found herself nodding off where she sat, whether she was working or simply watching TV. Her waking hours became a struggle, wrapped in an exhaustion that she tried to alleviate with a probably-lethal combination of extra-strong coffee and endless supplies of energy drinks. The excessive caffeine left her jittery and trembling, but did nothing whatsoever to her constant state of near-exhaustion.

It had only become notably bad in the last few days, though. Constant fatigue had become par for the course. Lapsing in and out of consciousness practically every half hour? Not so much. And the unwelcome arrival of an impossibly-high fever was just the icing on top of a really, really lousy cake.

"It's because of the Aether, isn't it?" It's the first time either of them have given actual voice to the possibility, and hearing it out loud frightens Jane more than anything that's happened so far.

But then, even in the midst of her panic, her drifting thoughts snag on something, on the smallest detail concealed within Darcy's speech.

"Either of you? Is Erik still here?" Her memories of her last wakeful period were hazy at best , but she was pretty sure she remembered Selvig leaving. Although that could have been a dream. Or a hallucination. She'd had plenty of both lately, and it was becoming harder to distinguish them from reality.

Darcy's eyes turn shifty. In all of her time spent with the bright, bubbly intern, the shifty look always spelled trouble. Jane has no time to sigh, roll her eyes or wearily demand _what did you do this time?_ before somebody else appears in the doorway. Somebody who is definitely not Erik Selvig.

 _Shit._

Any other time she would be happy to see him. But right now she's a little preoccupied with feeling like death warmed over and she doesn't have the energy in her for a reunion.

Thor crosses the room in four easy strides and bends to clasp her hands in his. He feels soothingly cool and she aches to put her arms around him, but she is suddenly painfully aware that she hasn't showered in a few days. Or brushed her hair; it just hangs around her face in limp, unruly tangles. She sighs ruefully. Yeah, this could be better.

She tears herself out of her self-pitying for long enough to skewer Darcy, who has hopped off of the bed to stand a respectful distance away, with a look that would have been enough to melt steel if she hadn't been feeling so weak.

"What?" Darcy squeaks, holding up her hands. "I didn't _call_ him here or anything, he just showed up!"

Thor's hands tighten a little around hers. "Heimdall informed me that you were unwell," he said softly. "I thought it best to come at once."

"You didn't…" Damn, why is it so hard to speak now? "I mean, thanks, but you didn't have to come all this way."

"It was no trouble," he tells her brightly. "Asgard is still in safe hands, after all. And even if it were not, I would sooner lose a war than pass up an opportunity to visit you." He kisses her then, on the forehead, but draws back immediately, a look of alarm dawning on his face.

"I know," she murmurs before he can say anything.

"Have you seen a doctor?" Jane exchanges a glance with Darcy, both of them rolling their eyes in response to the question.

"A couple of weeks ago, yeah. He ran some tests, took some blood. Told me it was probably just a virus or something. Fluids, rest, all that nonsense. Obviously, it didn't work." Thor nods, muttering something under his breath of which she only catches a couple of words, one of which is _primitive._ She can't help but smile a little at that, recalling his not-so-pleasant experience in New Mexico. After being hit by her car.

He still looks less than reassured, so she tells him the same thing she has been telling herself, mantra-fashion, for weeks. "I think I'll be okay, though. Give it a few days." If it fails to convince him, he does not say, and she is thankful for that.

"While I am here, though, is there anything at all you need?" Jane thinks. This is the most awake she's been in a few days, and only one truly desperate need springs to mind.

"A shower," she says in a small voice. Darcy heaves a melodramatic sigh of relief, touching a hand to her chest, and it's only her lack of physical strength that stops Jane from launching a pillow at her.

 _God,_ Thor actually has to help her stand and walk the scant hundred yards from her bedroom to the bathroom, and standing only serves to remind her of how long it has been since she's done so. Every part of her body feel stiff and achy, but some warm water will definitely put a stop to that.

The painted doorframe is a touchstone; she reaches eagerly for it, clinging tightly whilst gently shrugging Thor off. "I'm good from here. Thank you." He withdraws obediently, though his eyes never leave her as she shoulders the door open and gropes for the light switch.

"Call for me if you need anything," he instructs her through the door.

"You'll probably hear me if I fall over," she quips in response, not wanting to dwell on the likelihood of that happening.

The door closes, and Jane turns to confront her reflection in the mirror. It's worse than she thought. Even when she disregards the oily, tangled mess that is her hair, she looks truly awful. Pale enough to rival the floor tiles, dull-eyed and hollow-cheeked. She pulls her tank top over her head, peering down intently at herself. It might just be the harsh light, but her collarbones look way too pronounced for her liking, and she can see the suggestions of her ribcage through the papery skin of her torso.

 _When did I last eat?_ This final piece of physical evidence of her deteriorating condition is enough to truly frighten her. This is no mere malaise, to be slept off and caffeinated into oblivion. This is _illness,_ real and tangible.

Jane hurriedly turns on the shower, letting the roar of the water drown out all further thoughts. Steam kisses her face, and she moans in anticipation. She almost loses her footing stepping into the shower, and it takes a seconds-long age of frantically-pinwheeling arms and a racing heartbeat to regain her balance. The water _burns_ her bare skin for a moment, enough to make her gasp, but then her muscles relax and her eyes close and it is the closest thing to bliss she has felt in ages.

 _It's glowing again, in her peripheral vision, like spilled blood but darker, and yet somehow still giving off a light of its own. Something inside of her hurts at the sight, like a stab wound convulsing around a blade that has long since been pulled free._

Shampoo. Rinse. Regret not brushing hair beforehand. Repeat.

 _The memory of the Aether somehow hurts more than the Aether itself ever did, phantom strength pulsing at her core, leaving her burning in its wake. She fights to breathe around it where it is nestled in her ribcage, feels her blood force itself to pulse through veins that are already crowded with energy._

Her eyes flash open in shock. The vision is gone but she still can't quite breathe. Her heart is racing in her chest, hummingbird beats making her dizzy. Jane holds out for long enough to rinse the last of the shampoo out of her hair, before conceding that she might have overdone it a bit. Before she can even grab a towel, the world tilts sharply on its axis, spilling her onto the tiles, slick with condensation. Her hands scrabble for purchase, and her stomach lurches alarmingly.

 _Oh, great. That's the_ last _thing I need right now._

There's a bitter taste on her tongue; she fights not to gag, clawing her way inch by impossible inch towards the toilet. Her stomach is mostly empty, so there's not much to expel, but what does come up is red. Red like the Aether, only far too human.  
Jane cries out, muffling it with her hand too late, scrambling back away from the horrific sight. Her head is truly spinning now, and between that and the nausea she's all but immobilised, clutching her head in her hands.

" _Jane?"_ Thor's voice, from the corridor, raised in panic. _Oh, no!_ She tries to stand up, but the floor is not steady enough beneath her feet, and she ends up sprawled again, shivering with a sudden, aggressive chill.

" _Jane!"_ The door bursts open before she can say a word to stop him, and then he's beside her. In a moment of laughable humiliation, she remembers she is naked, but Thor is surprisingly unbothered, merely grabbing a towel and wrapping it around her. She nods her thanks, feeling her consciousness once more start to slip. His hand cups her face in an attempt to keep her attention, and she feels him stiffen as he no doubt catches sight of the blood on her lips.

"Thor…" Her voice is a ragged whisper. He says nothing in response, only holds her tighter. And that is how she knows that this is serious. Thor is _afraid_ for her. His arm slips beneath hers; he slowly hauls her upright, allowing her to lean on him when she can't find the strength to walk.

The corridor is darker than she remembers it, drenched in shifting shadow, but she can see Darcy there, frozen in place, eyes huge and frightened behind her glasses.

* * *

Everything starts to happen in a rush after Thor kicks the door in. It's too long before he emerges, a pale, shaking Jane in tow. There's blood on her chin, and Darcy immediately thinks the worst. And all she can do is stand there, frozen in place, watching it happen. Jane's eyes, bloodshot and glassy, meet hers for the briefest of moments, but there's nothing at all in them.

"What happened?" she makes herself ask, not expecting an answer. Thor sits Jane, towel and all, back on the bed, and begins pulling clean clothes out of the closet, passing them to Darcy in a haphazard bundle.

"Help me get her dressed," he commands in a voice tight and rigid with fear. If Thor is afraid too, this must be bad.

Still, she does as she's told, awkwardly trying to coax her friend into a pair of thick leggings, hands shaking so badly it's a wonder she can complete the task at all. Jane just watches listlessly, shivering so convulsively Darcy almost thinks she's having a seizure. With this in mind, she grabs a warm sweater from the heap Thor all but threw at her, and pulls it over Jane's head. Her hair is wet, sweet-smelling, dripping cold all down her shoulders and back. Darcy picks up the discarded towel, and tries to dry her hair a little. Jane coughs, without warning, and suddenly there's more blood in her palm. It's all Darcy can do not to start weeping at the sight.

Thor scoops Jane up into his arms, heedless of the blood still dripping from her mouth, and carries her from the apartment. Darcy follows blindly.

"Where are you going?" Her voice is tiny in the dark hallway, Thor's purposeful footfalls threatening to drown it out completely. But he hears her, somehow.

"I have to get her to Asgard," he says, urgency in his tone like nothing she's ever heard before. He doesn't explain further, but Darcy can guess. Jane is far beyond the help of human medicine.

He takes the stairs two at a time; she almost falls trying to follow suit.

The wind is harsh out in the parking lot, not particularly cold, but she can imagine what it's doing to Jane, who instinctively huddles up tighter in Thor's arms. Darcy reaches out to squeeze her hand in wordless comfort. Her skin is on fire.

"Heimdall," Thor says, not shouting. Darcy steps back, knowing what to expect. Then there's a moment of channelled, brilliant light, and a roaring that drowns out all but the frightened pounding of her own heart. Then, nothing.

Darcy is left alone.

She waits until the symbol burned into the ground stops smouldering. Then she turns on her heel and walks back indoors, because it's dark, and it's getting cold, and there really isn't much else she can do.

 **-tbc**

* * *

 **I'm not going to say much here, in case I accidentally give away more than I want to. So, to be brief, this is the first of three parts, which will hopefully be uploaded at regular-ish intervals. This is all I actually have written so far, but I know exactly where I'm going with it, so the next part should be up pretty swiftly. Unless I feel like torturing you all for a few more days...**  
 **Anyway, please feel free to comment and leave feedback, as always constructive criticism would be gratefully accepted.** **(Especially if you spot a typo, I seem to be making a lot of those lately...)**


	2. Chapter 2

**We're back! I meant to post this a bit sooner, but I was struck by an attack of _oh-god-this-is-terrible-we-need-to-rewrite-it-pronto_ syndrome. And then I just forgot. Hope you're not mad :) **

* * *

**Part Two**

Before Jane can say a word, her eyes are dazzled by colour and light, closing automatically. Her arm, slung around Thor's neck as he cradles her, tightens its grip in alarm before she recognizes the sensation. _The Bifrost._

 _Asgard. He's taking us back to –_

And then it stops; the world is still again. Jane opens her eyes, and even blurred as they are, she recognises her surroundings at once. If she lifts her head a little and squints, she can see Heimdall, standing sentry as always, looking for all the world as if the prince of Asgard and his less-than-healthy girlfriend haven't just stumbled into the place.

"Jane Foster." He doesn't even turn his head, but she knows that he can see her. Or sense her. Or whatever it is he does, it's all rather fuzzy in her head at the moment. And then he does turn, and approaches them both, a sad smile on his face. "I had hoped to see you here again. Though," he lowers his eyes ruefully, "perhaps under different circumstances." She nods in acknowledgement before he moves from her eyeline, this time addressing Thor.

"Take her to Eir," he says calmly, as if this is no crisis at all. Then, lowering his voice as if that'll stop Jane from hearing him, he adds: "She is stronger than you know, Thor. Do not despair yet." Heimdall returns to his position, and Thor turns away, still carrying her. She nudges him, indicating that she can still walk, and in fact, would like to, if that's all right with him.

Barely thirty seconds into their journey, she realises her mistake. Perhaps her legs wouldn't have threatened to give out if she hadn't been standing on a bridge that looked to be made of refracted light and very little else. But, as it is now, she has to lean very heavily on Thor before the world has slowed its spinning enough for her to see where she's going.

"Jane?" His voice still has that tight, brittle edge to it that she hates so much. She squeezes his arm, trying to offer what little comfort she can.

"I'm okay," she says firmly, though the fact that her voice cracks halfway through the word does nothing to help prove her point. "I'm _okay."_ If she says it enough times, it will be the truth.

"Are you ready?" There's nothing but shimmering light and spun glass beneath her feet; beneath that, only the stars and endless darkness. She swallows against vertigo, looking ahead towards the city instead. Shimmering, solid, safe.

"Yeah." She clears her throat, tastes a little blood. "Yeah. I'm ready." He curls a strong, warm arm around her waist, and they walk.

* * *

Darcy does not consider herself an impatient person. It's just that she hates waiting.

The first few minutes are bearable. She goes back into the apartment, closes the door, throws herself down in front of the TV, eyes staring through the screen as she tries to find a channel she can actually concentrate on. The split-second bursts of picture and sound as she channel-surfs just become aggravating after a while, so she switches the TV off, and just sits there, thinking, regrouping.

Then the stillness starts to get to her too and she stands up, glancing feverishly at the clock. Five minutes have passed. That's _all._

They won't be back. Not yet. Not for a while.

Darcy's not used to being on her own. Not like this. There's always been something to do, something Jane needs help with, something scientific and exciting. Even after New Mexico, when Thor didn't come back and Jane spent a good portion of her spare time crying, eating ice cream and generally keeping herself busy with everything that wasn't astrophysics, Darcy stuck around. Passing tissues. Stealing ice cream from time to time. Helping her look for utterly ordinary (read: totally freaking boring) jobs. You know, friend stuff.

The point is, she's never been _alone._ Not really. Not like this. And she doesn;t know how to deal with it.

Driven by a mad urge to do _something,_ Darcy runs into Jane's room and starts picking up the clothes that were scattered during Thor's whirlwind search, hands lingering for a second around Jane's favourite blouse. She makes the bed, folding the sheets and straightening the pillows with geometric precision, before eyeing the crumpled, sweat-stained lot and deciding they need a wash. She runs to the laundry room and bundles everything in alongside an unhealthy dose of detergent, and just watches the machine spin until her eyes ache, thinking all the while _they'll be back by the time I get back to the apartment._

They aren't, so she heads for the bathroom. First, she mops up the water liberally puddled on the tiles, unfolds the floor mat. Then she catches sight of the toilet and almost cries. She has to flush it five times (each one punctuated by an agonizingly-long wait for the tank to fill up) and pour half a bottle of bleach into the bowl before she's satisfied that it's all gone. She scrubs the floor around it until her hands are raw. If she can erase all of the evidence, maybe the whole dreadful night will disappear too. She'll walk back into Jane's room, and find her there, dead to the world, but still _all right._ Curled up on her side the way she always is, pale face hidden beneath a fine curtain of light-brown hair, snoring gently even though she always denies it.

The image is so painfully vivid Darcy almost expects to find her there.

Surprisingly, or not, she doesn't.

That's half an hour gone, and no word.

Darcy tries to remember a time she's been left adrift like this. The only thing that springs to mind is when she was a kid, and her grandpa was in hospital. He had cancer, though she didn't know it at the time. She was only seven, and though the waiting was still painful, she had a whole bag of M+M's, and her mom's lap to curl up in, and a comic to read.

The waiting sucked, but she didn't know that Grandpa was dying.

 _Jane's dying._

This is the first time she's dared to let herself think that, and it catches her off-guard, sudden as a car crash, and as devastating.

 _Jane is dying._

Darcy ends up back where she started. On the couch, in front of the TV. Only this time, she doesn't turn it on. All she can see is her own face reflected in the screen.

* * *

The ceiling is what intimidates her the most. Not the fact that she is very sick and beyond the help of whatever "primitive" treatments her home can offer. Not the austere gaze of the woman currently frowning at the images projected above her on the soul-forge. The goddamned ceiling. Go figure. It's high and shadowed, and Jane, with her blurred vision and current complete lack of movement (Eir sighs if she so much as blinks, for crying out loud) feels as though she is gazing into the Void itself. Still, it gives her something to concentrate on. She glances at Thor, who is holding her hand soothingly but has so far not spoken a word. He's not looking at her, seems to be trying to do anything but look at her, in fact. She squeezes his hand in an attempt to get his attention, and for a moment he does nothing, but eventually he does turn to face her.

She flicks her eyes upwards, towards the silhouette of her body cast in shimmering golden light, mouths the words _quantum-field generator,_ hoping to see his eyes light up, even slightly. Hoping to erase the look of grim terror from his face, because that's working to scare her more than anything else in the room. Thor must sense this somehow, because he attempts to smile at her, but it looks hollow. Like a mask rather than the real thing. She shudders against a wave of visceral pain, letting her hand tighten around his, knowing it'll take more strength than she currently possesses to even make him wince. It has no definite source, the pain, but she feels it in every particle of her being. A second wave, this one stronger, and she has to sit up because on top of the pain there's sudden, dragging nausea –

She panics for a moment, but Eir deftly places a basin in her lap, and Thor's holding her hair, and she can just let go. Again, there's very little to come up, but what there is is scarlet with blood, and the sight of it coupled with the exertion leaves her shaking.

She can't meet either pair of eyes in the room when she's done, even though Thor is rubbing her back and murmuring things she hasn't the energy to decipher, and Eir seems surprisingly untroubled by the whole thing.

"Thor," Eir says softly, signalling for him to step back a little. He does so, with noticeable shades of reluctance. "Jane Foster." _Why do they do that? Why do all of the Asgardians insist on using both of my names?_ It brings back memories of her father (pleasant), and also, strangely, memories of school (less so).

"I believe you have an idea of what this is." Her tone is so cool, so serene, that it almost helps to put Jane at ease. Almost. She nods.

"It's the Aether, isn't it?"

"Yes. Although it was removed before it could consume you completely, it has still left a great deal of harm in its wake." She could simply be discussing the weather, she sounds so calm. "Your body is beginning to break down, though the process is slow. For how long have you been experiencing fatigue?" Jane swallows, thinking hard.

"Since about two, maybe three days after we defeated Malekith. That must make it… about a month now." Thor utters a soft curse beside her, and the significance of what she's said hits her.

 _A month._ All those dragging, heavy days of thinking _it'll be gone by tomorrow,_ they've added up to a whole month.

"Why did you not say anything?" Thor demands in a strangled whisper. She glances down into her lap, suddenly ashamed. She could have spared him so much worry, and Darcy too, _oh god…_

Eir merely nods, thoughtful. "And the fever began…?"

"About a week ago."

"Yes. The Aether would have disabled your immune response. Now that it is gone, your body is trying to fight off something that is no longer there." Jane doesn't really care about any of that, all she really wants to know is –

"Will she recover from this?" Thor demands in a voice more terrible than anything she's ever heard.

"I'm afraid the damage is irreversible. I'm loath to say it, truly, but she was fortunate to survive at all." Jane risks another glance in Thor's direction. He's silent, motionless, but she can tell he's absolutely furious. When he turns to Eir, his eyes are burning. Jane braces herself.

But Thor is quiet, dangerously so. "Is there _anything_ you can do? Anything at all, to save her?"

Eir pauses, and it's fatal.

"Do not stand there and tell me there is nothing you can do! There _must_ be a way!" Her near-perfect composure threatens to crumble in the face of Thor's rage, but all she does is take a single, controlled step backwards.

"I am… sorry, but there is truly nothing to be done. There are elixirs I could administer-"

"Then _administer them,"_ Thor growls.

"-But they would only draw the process out. In the end, all we would be doing is… prolonging her suffering." There's true remorse in her tone, and it's more than enough to silence Thor.

Jane speaks up, breaking the tense film. "H-how long? How long would I have?" She's weirdly calm. Maybe it hasn't hit her yet. Thor makes a sound that's halfway to a sob, and she feels her own chest constrict.

"I cannot say for certain. A month, two. Maybe more. But in the end… this will kill you."

"Yeah," Jane replies numbly. "I got that part." Eir touches her shoulder gently.

"I am truly sorry. As I said, there are elixirs that would…" Jane just shakes her head. She's a coward, she knows that. She fears death as any mortal would… and yet she doesn't want this to go on for any longer than it has to.

"I am sorry that I could not be of any more help." Eir withdraws respectfully, gives Thor a remorseful look, and simply leaves.

Neither of them can bear to speak for a moment.

Again, Jane is first to break the silence.

"What do we do now?" She cringes, she can't help it because that sounds unbelievably childish, inconsequential in the face of everything that's just happened.

"I can take you home." His voice is atonal, dead, somehow worse than his earlier blistering rage. She nods, not quite able to bring herself to meet his gaze. He picks her up from the bed, and this time she lets herself be carried.

* * *

They make it halfway back to the Bifrost before he breaks.

"Jane…" She cranes her neck round to meet his gaze, and catches sight of the tears in his eyes. "I'm so sorry. I thought that they would be able to do more… Forgive me…!" Wordlessly, she reaches up a shaking hand to cup the side of his face, feeling the coolness of his skin – always so cool in comparison to her, now – and the striking wetness of tears beneath her palm.

"I can't… I can't lose you!" That's all he manages to say before the rest is lost in tears.

"Thor…" She tries to keep her voice strong, for him. "It's okay. I mean, it isn't okay, nothing about this is okay at all, but… we will get through it. I promise you, we will." It is a weak promise at best, but it is the best she can offer up. He nods, breathes, tries to stop weeping.

She wraps an arm around his neck, and they walk.

* * *

The roar of the Bifrost awakens Darcy from a nap she never meant to have. Eyes still half-open, she runs through the door and down the two flights of steps to meet them.

Thor has been crying. Jane is even paler than she was when they left. Both wear the same expression of hollow-eyes shock. This alone should be enough to tell Darcy everything she needs to know, but she feels the need to check anyway.

"Well?" she demands, a little shakily.

"Let's just… get inside," Jane murmurs. Her voice is tiny, exhausted.

So they go inside. They sit; Jane with her head in Thor's lap, Darcy tense and fearful on the arm of the couch. The warm light of the apartment does nothing for the bleakness of the situation. She knows already, knows exactly what she is about to be told, but no, she has to hear it. She clenches her raw, cracked fists, bites her lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Darcy…" Jane looks her dead in the eye, still and intense. The words are not spoken, at least not aloud. But she hears them anyway, feels them deep in her core, where they twist like steel cables, forcing the breath from her chest. That single, harsh breath becomes a sob, then a cry, then a full, anguished scream that even the panicked press of her palm against her lips cannot silence.

Time stops, and reality falls away from her in a jolt that feels like standing too close to a cliff-edge. One foot wrong, and you'll fall.

And then there's an arm around her, and she's crying and crying and it seems to her that she will never stop.

* * *

 **...I'm not even sorry.**

 **First off, I'd like to say a massive thank you to everyone who favorited, followed and left reviews for the last chapter. (Guest, this one's for you since I couldn't reply to you personally). You are the ones giving me the motivation to carry on with this story. And as long as you don't all hate me for bringing this about, more feedback would be lovely, please and thank you.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry, sorry, sorry! God, it's been a shamefully-long time between updates, hasn't it? But this chapter was an absolute bitch to write, let me tell you. It's also the last one, thank goodness, but be warned: things are about to get intense. Feel free to hate me.**

* * *

She stops, of course. Nobody can weep forever.

The first few days are the hardest, when the reality of it is still fresh and it keeps reeling back to hit them, again and again, each blow as keen as the first. But the river of time is persistent, and not even tragedy, large and obstructive as a boulder, can do anything to deviate it from its pre-destined path. Even in the wake of the news, their lives continue as before.

Thor stays, of course, and that is somehow helpful, to all of them. Jane is more than happy for him to stay, but it is Darcy who is the most grateful. Now she has somebody to talk to when things are bad, somebody steady and unshakeable to cling to when fear threatens to overwhelm her.

Winter thaws into spring (though here, the weather is so unpredictable and generally crappy that they can barely tell the difference), and things begin to resume the shape known as normalcy, trying desperately to smooth over the jagged, alien edge of what is to come. It looms in the mist of an uncertain future, waiting for them at the end of the road they do not know the length of.

For Jane, the endless cycle of days is the most unbearable; sometimes, time dissolves into one waking fever-dream, shadow and nightmare and pain merging into one omnipresent state, until she opens her eyes, lucid again, only to be told that three days have slipped by. Three of her numbered days, gone.

One her better days, however, she is simply bored. She lacks the energy, both physically and mentally, to work, but she has to do _something_ to work through the time that seems to weigh so heavily on her hands.

They go out, as often as they can manage. London, in spite of its lousy weather and perilous roads, is a spectacular city, giving them many opportunities to explore and take in the sights they've so far been too busy to.

But, for want of preoccupation, Jane finds her mind overridden by unexpected, ugly thoughts. Thor leads the way as they cross Tower Bridge, with Darcy behind him, guarding the camera with her life since he very nearly dropped it over the railings. Jane is at the back, falling farther and farther behind each second. Try as she might, she just can't catch them up. Nor can she bring herself to call to them. They're both happy, something she's seen evidence of all too rarely since she returned from Asgard with the damning news. She pauses to catch her breath, leaning against the railing as her vision swims. The calm, murky water courses far beneath her feet, not helping to allay her light-headedness at all. But at the same time it's strangely calming, almost hypnotic, the inexorable movement of the current.

An idea wraps its way around her mind, like a poison vine, driving thorns deep in. Her grip on the railing tightens, the metal like ice beneath her frail fingers.

 _They won't look back for a while yet._

It would be so easy, easier than anything else she's had to do. Quick, as well. Count to thirty, and she'd be gone.

 _They won't look back until it's too late._

 _Spare them,_ she thinks. _Spare them from what's to come._

 _A slow death, breaths becoming papery and tenuous. A body on the couch where I used to sit._

They don't deserve that. Darcy, her closest friend. Thor, the man she… the _god_ who has abandoned his home in order to watch her die.

Her foot is up on the rail, almost without her noticing.

 _Just jump._

 _Jump._

"Jane!" Thor's voice, carrying clear all the way back to her, breaks the vine, rips out the thorns. The pain of it is so intense it brings tears to her eyes.

 _What the hell was I thinking?_

Trying not to cry, she stumbles her way back towards her friends. They are oblivious, thank god. She won't tell them. This is one thing they do not need to know about.

* * *

Darcy often wonders how the walls of the apartment can manage to hold them. Hell, sometimes it's a struggle for two of them. Adding a very tall, very muscly space-god to the mix would definitely complicate things. And it does, oh god it does. The apartment only has one freaking bedroom (Jane's, since she saved up and made the down payment on the apartment in the first place). But that was cool; the couch was comfy enough, especially when you added a heap of blankets. But then there was Thor to consider. It was only sheer luck that ensured that Jane actually had a camp bed hidden away somewhere. Darcy takes that, taking pity on Thor and the fact that he's just not _short_ enough. It's nowhere near as comfy as her beloved couch, but she can handle that. None of them sleep a whole night anymore anyway.

But it's not just the size of the apartment that troubles her now. It's the apartment itself, with its air of mundane security, the comfort of a place that they actually own, a normal place that holds two less-than-normal people when they want to shelter from the extraordinary. How can it be expected to hold something so huge and so terrible? How can the walls not crumble beneath it?

She fears it happening. This place, their sanctuary, their little piece of normalcy, how can they expect it to hold?

And when the time comes, she doesn't think there will be a safe place left for her to go.

* * *

Warmth. The sound of a steady heartbeat in her ears, masking out the staccato flutter-pounding of her own. Strong, gentle arms that know just how to hold her, to still the tremors that rip through her at a moment's notice. This is the closest to bliss Jane has come in a while. She wants to remember this night, every last meaningless detail of it. The blanket wrapped around her lower half. The intermittent clattering and good-natured cursing as Darcy tackles the washing up in the kitchen. Other things she can recall without looking for them. The colour of the walls. The shadows cast through the small window as cars streak by below.

She has to memorise every detail, because she doesn't know if she'll get the time to do this again.

Thor shifts the slightest bit. Probably assuming that she's fallen asleep again. His breaths are slow, measured, soft. His palm is resting against her hip; her head is against his chest. She lifts her head until she's looking right into his face. It takes him a while to look down but when he eventually does, he smiles.

That's another memory she's keen to hang on to. His smile. Especially now, when it has become so very, very rare.

The words she desperately wants to say catch in her throat, and she wonders – _have I ever told him?_

And she knows, deep down, that it has to be tonight. Her time is all but up, and strangely, the notion doesn't frighten her.

She finds his hand down where it so gently cups her hip, and holds it. Tightly. She never, ever wants to let him go.

"I love you." The words are made ragged and harsh by the pain and dryness in her throat, stripped of all their integrity, but he hears them.

His response is not verbal; instead he leans closer and kisses her. Not passionately, tenderly. As though he is afraid she will shatter like glass if he isn't very careful.

 _Fuck that,_ Jane thinks after a second or two, and reaches up to urge him closer, fingers knotting in his slightly-mussed blond hair. She's breathless already, but she'll be damned if she's going to let her own stupid weakness come between them tonight.

She owes him that much, at least.

Willing herself not to tremble, and knowing she will anyway, Jane pulls away, turning herself over so she's practically straddling him, instead of simply curled up against his chest. She lets her hips move the way they want to, lets her lips connect with his once more. Her heart is pounding hard, with what could be arousal and could be something more sinister. His arms are around her properly now. He can feel everything. Her harsh breathing, her heart that's beating far too fast for comfort.

 _No._ She wants this. _Let me have this, please._

 _I don't know if I'll get the chance again._

But no, no. His hands are on her shoulders, easing her away, albeit reluctantly. She whines and tries to push against him, but even at full strength she would have been no match for him. Now, it's impossible.

"Jane…" He's almost as breathless as she is, and he's shaking a little besides. "You are not strong enough for this."

"Like hell I'm not!" she replies indignantly, trying in vain to still her violent shaking. "Thor, _please…"_

He's wavering; she can see that, his eyes everywhere but on her face. She leans closer again, kissing his jaw, his neck, gently dragging her fingers down his firm, muscled abdomen, playing teasingly with the waistband of his sweatpants. She can feel his resolve crumbling even as he tries to deny her. "Please…" she whispers again, lips brushing his ear.

He exhales shakily, reaching up to cup the side of her face, pushing her away from him again. She almost growls in frustration.

"You need to rest," he insists, as firmly as he can manage.

"Fuck that," she retorts, batting his hand away and pressing herself close again. "I need _you."_ That final phrase, all but snarled against his neck, is his breaking point. He's still maddeningly gentle as he flips them both; guiding her to lie down on the other side of the bed, but there's eagerness to his motions now. Gone is the concern in his eyes, all she can see in them now is love. Love and fierce desire.

He's achingly gentle, and yet it's mere minutes before she is undone, the wave of pleasure that floods through her almost too much to bear. She cries out, is hushed immediately as his lips meet hers one final time, and it is done.

What follows is nothing more than blissful silence, both of them spent and happy in each other's arms.

"I love you," Thor murmurs, finding her hand in the dark and twining their fingers together tightly. And in that moment, Jane is certain that no force in this realm or the next would be enough to part them.

* * *

 _Three days later_

The sunlight is what wakes Darcy first. Sunshine, so rarely seen in London right now, seemingly bright enough to blind her. She rolls over, away from those over-eager rays, and sits up. Today is a good day, she can feel it.

She's been awake for mere seconds, and there's already a smile on her face for some unknown reason. But she welcomes it; she's been on edge nearly constantly, so the sudden inexplicable joy is a welcome relief.

She sits up, wincing as the campbed lets out an impossibly-loud creak in the bright, silent room – but Thor doesn't stir. Good. The tiny kitchen is hard enough to operate in at this time of the morning without adding a hungry, uncoordinated Asgardian to the mix.

Darcy pours orange juice – two glasses of it - suddenly gripped with a mad urge to slip into Jane's bedroom with breakfast and just…talk. The way they used to, before…. Well, before everything. Girl talk had understandably been brushed under the metaphorical rug.

Well, not today! She tears the foil off of a couple of Pop-Tarts (something she was sure they wouldn't have been able to find in England, thank God she'd been wrong) and haphazardly drops them into the toaster. Jane doesn't eat much nowadays, but Darcy had never, ever known her turn down a Pop-Tart.

Her gaze drifts towards the small window, out towards the parking lot, and beyond. She's never seen it so sunny here. It's beautiful, the way the light bounces and shatters off of the car windows, and the buildings on the horizon seemingly built of nothing but glass.

Carefully juggling both glasses of juice, Darcy heads for Jane's room, too antsy to wait for the toaster. The door is ajar, and she can see dim curtain-filtered light pooling on the carpet, tinted ocean-green.

"Jane?" she sings through the gap, not expecting a response immediately. "Jane, I made breakfast!" Nada. But that's not unusual anymore. So she's anything but apprehensive as she advances further into the room. The air is cool, and still, and dark. Dust motes swirl in the knife-sharp sunbeams.

Jane is turned away from her, quiet. Her hair falls in a tangled curtain over her face, concealing it utterly from view. She's curled up beneath the sheets; knees tucked up, one arm extended out as if reaching for something.

"Jane?" Darcy shakes her playfully by the shoulder, still smiling. "C'mon, the sun's out for a change! Y'know – sun? That stuff we don't ever see around here. This is practically a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!" She gives Jane an extra shake for good measure, and yanks the curtains open. Sunlight spills into the small room, and Jane doesn't even stir.

It's completely silent. No rasp of breathing, nothing. Only when Darcy holds her own breath for a moment does she realise just how quiet it really is.

With a steady, methodical hand, Darcy brushes the silky fall of hair away from her friend's face, tucking it tenderly behind her ear. She's cool to the touch. Not burning with fever as she has been almost constantly for weeks.

There's blood on the pillow. Not a frightening amount, just little speckles of it, already mostly dry.

Outside, a distant alarm shrieks into the morning hush. She faintly hears stirring and yawning from the other room, mundane morning sounds, somehow sounding so far away, like she and Jane and the whole room have been removed, placed in Limbo.

Darcy's hand, still twined in Jane's hair, moves gently down the side of her face, feeling the cold skin and gentle curve of her jaw. She knows there will be no pulse there.

She's grey-white, her lips tinged blue. The blood stands out almost obscenely, and Darcy has to battle an urge to wipe it away.

Darcy is not afraid. She's staring down at her best friend's corpse, and yet there's no metallic clutch of fear at her throat, no chasm of dread opening in her stomach.

 _Wake up, Darcy. You're dreaming._

 _Wake up._

 _Wake up._

She breathes the words, unsure who she means them for. Her mouth is dry. It's cold. It must be; she's shivering.

She doesn't hear Thor enter the room, barely registers his cry of anguish as he spots what she's already seen. She doesn't notice when he comes to kneel beside the bed, taking hold of Jane's cold, outstretched hand as if he can will the life back into her.

"We have to call somebody," she says aloud, the words startlingly loud in the quiet room, deafening even against the sound of Thor crying.

Darcy's eyes are dry; her throat is not tight with unshed tears.

She doesn't cry when she's making the call.

She doesn't cry when they come, with a gurney and a bag.

She doesn't cry when they're lifting Jane as if she weighs nothing, still frozen in the position they found her in, limbs rigid like a doll's.

She doesn't cry when the apartment door finally closes and it's all, finally, blissfully and terribly – over.

She cried enough at the start of it all, fear and anger and disbelief swarming to fill her all at once.

She feels nothing now, nothing. This was _inevitable._

Darcy stands, surprisingly steady, and begins to walk away. Away from Thor, away from the empty bed, away from it all.

And then there's a pain like knives in the sole of her foot, she looks down to find broken glass, orange juice and blood staining the carpet with colours too bright to be real, like a child's paint set.

And then she's falling backwards, and Thor's arms are around her, and still she feels nothing.

 _-end_

* * *

 ***begins building fallout shelter***

 **Believe it or not, there was one scene in particular that had me completely stumped during this last chapter. The sexy one. That's right, I struggled for _three months_ to write about making love to Chris Hemsworth. Wow. There were other things at play as well (work, general lack of inspiration caused by work, etc.) but it was mostly that scene. It was originally going to be much longer and steamier, but I'm way too lazy to go and change the rating of this fic for one scene. **

**About the time jump between the sex scene and the last scene, I wanted to think of something a bit more artistic than that, but I am both stupid and mentally exhausted, so that's what we're stuck with now.**

 **I might also write an epilogue for this at some point, but given how inconsistent my updates are, just consider it complete for now.**

 **And finally, a massive thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited and followed this story. It helped me out more than I can say. I may write more Marvel-related stuff in the future, but until then... bye!**


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